


Prey

by Spencebox



Series: Game of Thrones Two Shot Fics [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha Ramsay Bolton, Biting, Bottom Theon Greyjoy, Creepy Ramsay Bolton, Forced Bonding, Forced Feminization, Forced Orgasm, Full Shift Werewolves, Hints at Male Pregnancy, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Ramsay, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Ramsay loves Theon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stalking, Sub Theon Greyjoy, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Top ramsay bolton, Torture, Toxic love, little bit of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29850036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencebox/pseuds/Spencebox
Summary: In the dead of night, Theon flees Pyke, leaving behind the father who never wanted him and the sister who would be Queen.With help from his old friend Robb Stark, a new life on the edge of the Wolfswood is more than he felt he deserved. Except, no one could've guessed that Ramsay Bolton, whose form changed from man to wolf, would taking a liking to the Ironborn.If only Theon knew just how much trouble he was in.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy
Series: Game of Thrones Two Shot Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2194359
Comments: 13
Kudos: 34





	Prey

**Author's Note:**

> I like Theon/Ramsay. I read alot of it, so now I must write one. Enjoy!
> 
> Not beta'd but I decently trust my eyes.

Moving away from home was the hardest thing Theon Greyjoy had ever done in his life. 

Interestingly enough, leaving the Iron Islands, fleeing Pyke- his home for nearly twenty-two years, hadn't been the worst part. It was a known fact that the King of Pyke, Balon Greyjoy, had never liked his son. Most would go as far to say that Theon was better off dead than alive; the runt of the pack dying off for the better of the group. 

Miraculously, Theon had survived long enough to plan an escape. His Mother, the only Greyjoy left who cared for Theon, had left him a sum of money.

Rodrick, his nasty half brother aged at seven and twenty, who offered one too many times to chuck him from the nearest tower, had spent the money on whores and mead many seasons ago. 

Rodrik did not see Theon as a true Ironborn, therefore he was undeserving of such riches. 

The only friend- and that was a stretch- he’d ever had was his sister, Yara, her hard features and taste for salt wives tearing them further apart. Everyone pitied Yara for being a woman, knowing that when Balon died she should’ve been the one to take over. And she would’ve too, if only Theon hadn’t been born. 

It was exactly why Theon had slipped away in the dead of night, barely a case in his hand stuffed haphazardly with socks and breeches and trinkets from the times he had felt wanted with his family, slinking close to the ground and out of the Castle.

He’d paused by Yara’s room to see her asleep between two half-ugly salt wives, one’s lips caked in disease while the other had less tits than a mare. 

Knowing this was the last time he’d see her, he didn’t say a word; she’d never liked him anyway. 

Handling the boat ported on the shores of Pyke was been a man twice Theon’s age, grey scraggly beard covering his chin while soft grey eyes took him in. 

“Where you headed lookin’ like that, boy?” His voice had a jolly rhythm; a foreigner, not Ironborn. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Theon took a look around the empty boat. “Where are you heading? Up North?” 

“Depends,” shrugged the man. “You goin’ somewhere in particular? I can change course if I must. I’ve not really a plan at the moment.” 

He wanted to scream that anywhere but this bloody island would do. “As long as it’s far from here, I don’t care.” 

“I suppose…” the man trailed off. “I’d hope you have some coin for safe travels, lad.” 

Digging around in his pocket, his knuckles fisted a locket from his mother. Bright red jewels from beneath the Iron Island shined in the man's eyes, and he gingerly took it from Theon. 

“I know this symbol. This belongs to the Greyjoy's.” 

“Aye.” grumbled Theon. “It did.” 

“Now look here, I don’t want any thieves on my boat. I do good work here,” the man dropped the necklace back into Theon’s hand. “Go on then, get off my barge before I throw you off.” 

“Please.” Theon begged, seeing this was going south as the sun started to break the line over the line of water.

“I did not steal this, it is mine to give.” He stuffed it back into the man’s grasp, uncaring that his Mother’s memory would stay with the medallion. 

“Then you’re a Greyjoy, is it?” The man hummed, eyeing Theon. “How do you tell a liar from someone telling the truth?” 

Theon had no answer, so the man continued, “You look into their eyes. People who lie fidget and look away because they’re scared, as they should be. I’m just a man on my boat, traveling Westeros with my daughter, and I don’t want trouble. And you” he poked Theon in the chest, “look like trouble.” 

It was too good to be true, and it crushed Theon’s heart to a fine dust, fluttering away to cover the sea. Pyke wase his home, his captive tower where talk of his murder was more common than that of the weather. And the day Euron returned on the horizon would be his end. 

Theon turned, beginning to defeat walk home.

“But then again, I have been wrong before.” The man held out a hand that lacked fingers above the knuckle. 

“Davos Seaworth, at your service. We ride for the North in half the hour.” 

Pointing to the door leading below, he uttered, “My daughter could use the company. Don’t make me regret it.” 

“Thank you, Ser.” Theon bowed, one arm bound to his chest. “What is dead may never die.” 

“Sure, sure, alright son.” Davos waved him off, muttering under his breath. 

Carefully watching as Davos went to check the sails, Theon took view of his home for the next few weeks. 

It wasn’t the nicest ship he’d been on; the fleet under Balon Greyjoy was nothing short of majestic. Every able man on the Islands spent nearly ten moons off land, pillaging and scourging other islands and boats for food, supplies, and salt wives.

Euron had been banished years ago for raping too many, stealing enough to catch the eye of important people, and attempting to kill his brother. 

_I’ll kill you nice and slow, nephew, after I fuck your sister bloody. Hell, I may have a turn with you before then._

Theon shuddered thinking of his Uncle, and walked along the aged hard wooden planks that led to the Captain’s Cabin, knocking twice on the door. Two beats passed before it opened. 

“Are you ready, Davos?” A girl of ten stood before Theon, staring up with wide eyes, half her face covered in grey scale, a disease that had yet to ever make land in the Islands. No cure, people said, and painful as all hell.

It took over every piece of skin on your body; even then it didn’t kill you. He felt pity for the poor girl.

“Who are you?” She didn’t look scared, but he could see that one of her hands was behind her back, probably a knife or something sharp enough to cut his throat. 

“Theon,” he blurted out. “I’ve been given passage until we reach the North.” He nodded to the girl. “You’re Father is a good man.” 

“He’s not my Father, not really, but Davos is one of the best people I know.” The girl smiled at Theon. “I’m Shireen, it’s an honor to meet you Theon, of House Greyjoy.” 

His smile turned cold. “How’d you know I’m House Greyjoy?” 

Shireen shrugged; “I’ve read a lot of stories and I knew we were coming here. I’ve heard about the Greyjoys and the Iron Islands.” Her nose wrinkled, grey scale unmoving. “You shouldn’t tell people your real name if you don’t want them to know who you are.” 

She had a point, but he’d never say. “Davos told me to keep you company.” 

“Can you read?” 

His eyes widened, “What? Of course, I can. I'm Ironborn, for Drowned God’s sake.” Shireen didn’t look very convinced. 

“I’m teaching Davos to read. I wasn’t trying to be rude.” Her shoulders shrugged.

“My Father taught me when I was still small, but I have to do it every day or I won’t ever get any better. Look,” she strode to the small table covered in empty plates and half filled goblets. 

There lay a book thicker than anything Theon had ever seen, and he watched her lug it over, “I started this one three nights ago and I’ve barely made a dent. Have you ever read a Dance of Dragons?” 

Theon shook his head as she explained. “It’s a true story from Grand Maester Munkin about two siblings fighting for the Seven Kingdoms. It’s amazing, really. A little too complex for Davos, but we’ll get there.” 

Somewhere in the distance, he vaguely heard Shireen start from reading from a Dance of Dragons, describing the rage that flamed Rhaenyra and her half brother Aegon II, two lines of Targaryen House. They’d both been dead for so long; it made him wonder whether anyone would write his name in books and describe the hatred that festered amongst the Iron Islands. 

He hoped they didn’t; unlike his family words, he hoped Yara and Balon and Rodrik and Euron would die and stay _dead._

* * *

The North, unlike the Pyke and the entirety of the Iron Islands, was beyond cold. 

Even though the season was Spring, the air still held a teeth chattering chill that shook his bones, sinking into his boney knees and nearly turning his toes blue. Once frozen, the newly green trees covered the area surrounding his new home, sunlight peeking through every morning to help him welcome a new day. 

Robb Stark, his old friend from memories he hardly remembered but always seemed fresh in the Stark heirs mind, had been the one to procure Theon’s small reasonable home. One chamber for sleeping with proper bedposts and down filled pillows in a mountain under his head and soft covers to keep him warm. It was better fit for a King than Theon, and even worse, Robb had promised to sneak rations from the Winterfell once winter turned particularly harsh. 

“You can’t, Robb.” Theon had denied his friend's offer of food consisting of sweet breads and soft meats and cakes and pies. “You’re to rule Winterfell one day, you and your people need it more than me.” 

Robb pouted with a clenched jaw. “You can’t protect yourself, Theon. This isn’t the Iron Islands-” 

“I know it’s not.” 

“Then you’d know that the North is full of worse things than Balon Greyjoy.” Rob sighed through his nose. “Just once or twice each winter, so I know you’re safe and freezing your bloody balls off.” 

“I learned to fight with Yara, Robb. I can kill my own dinner.” Theon, stubborn as ever, refused to back down. 

“Not in these parts, you can’t.” He gestured to the surrounding woods. “Just beyond the Wolfswood is the Dreadfort. Our Father has warned us to never cross into their lands. Their sigil is the flayed man, and I’ve heard word that their dungeons are filled with creatures you couldn’t begin to imagine.” 

Theon crossed his arms, “Are you done babying me, Robb?” 

“I’m not-” he huffed, puffing out his chest. “I just need to know that you’re okay and not caught in a trap, or worse. Whether you like it or not, you’re my friend, Theon. I just don’t want to see you hurt.” 

This was one of the reasons he hated Robb; ever the diplomatic son of the Warden of the North. But even Theon could see that his old friend would never back down. So, he sighed and uncrossed his tense arms, “If I take it, will you leave?” 

Grinning triumphantly, Robb hugged his friend, “Remember what I said about the Bolton’s if you try to go hunting; you wouldn’t believe the stories I’ve heard.” 

Thankfully, he hadn’t stuck around to tell the stories of what exactly happened in the deep, dark woods beyond his home, and truthfully, Theon didn’t care. 

Finally, after three cold nights along in his new but quaint home, Theon felt less lonely than he had in a while. Even if there was no one around for miles upon miles, aside from however far the Dreadfort remained, the chirping of the ravens and the cooing of the crows were better welcome than the insults from Father or the sneers of Yara. 

Did they even notice he was gone from Pyke, not having slipped into a brothel to fuck a willing whore but actually, truly gone? 

In his chest, there was a tightness that irked him beyond belief. It annoyed him whenever he picked at Robb’s rations and tried not to scarf down the sweet honey loaf topped with creamy molded cheese and rich cured meats, and eventually, he grabbed a bow and arrow and stepped outside. 

Taking a deep breath of air and holding it until it hurt, Theon gazed out into the thicket of trees.

Pyke had always been lacking in greenery, a sin and a gift. When there were trees, there were animals and fruits and nuts and leaves for ailments that plagued the people by the sea. Sadly, the Ironborn had fallen ill to sickness brought from the sea, and hunger from the lack of game. The only gain was that no one came to the Islands for their goods.

Theon had eaten enough fish to last a lifetime, and for the first time- with his bow and arrow in hand- he could be the hunter and not the prey. Nodding to himself, Theon stepped through dead leaves and soft grass into the Wolfswood. 

For a while, there was nothing but trees and pinecones, not a bird of deer in sight. It was disappointing, really, and only after half an hour of treacherous walking did he finally smell the scent of freshwater and hear a running river.

It made him lick his lips and swallow a glob of spit, hurrying faster to the sound of his saving grace. 

Upon leaving the thicket, he cried in joy at the running precious waters, falling to his knees and hungrily downing mouthfuls of precious chilled water.

His stomach cried in joy at the coolness filling his belly, taking a few handfuls to splash in his hair as well. He moaned in relief, sitting back on his thighs and looking at what lay ahead. 

The river was no wider than any other but shallow enough to be ankle deep, leaving water to lap at the ankles of anyone who crossed. Staring straight ahead, Theon looked into the darkness of the forest that remained unexplored. 

Strangely, it almost felt like the wall of darkness was staring right back. 

Shaking his head of stray droplets, he leaned down to drink more water. Quickly, his belly became uncomfortably full. He allowed the cool feel of the water to wash over him. He regretted not making a plan to bring some back; perhaps that would be an attempt for a new day. 

When Theon looked back to the expanse of the unexplored Wolfswood, a womanly scream escaped his throat. Just a few feet away on the other side of the river, lay a wolf bigger than any he’d ever seen. 

_Direwolves,_ he recalled, or at least, that’s what it must have been. Robb and the Stark lot each had one of their own, even named the bloody things. 

They were thrice the size of regular wolves, and the bastard, Jon Snow’s wolf, Ghost, had blood red eyes that scared the hell out of anyone who caught its gaze. It was as freaky as the bastard himself. 

He was thankful to the Drowned Gods that this one was no Ghost. 

Instead, this one’s eyes were clearer than the seas of Pyke, moving and flowing like the water sloshing against his soaked knees. Taking it slow, Theon attempted to take a step, but the wolf left out a ferocious growl that left the Ironborn cowering in fear. 

_You’re not fit to rule,_ Balon loved to recite to Theon everyday and night since birth, _You’re no Ironborn._

Shaking in fear, Theon closed his eyes and waited with bated breath, knowing this is what Yara and Rodrik had dreamed of. The scum set to inherit the Throne torn apart by jagged teeth. 

Far too many beats passed for comfort, and confusion bubbled in his gut, eyes opening wide and staring up at the beast. Only, this time no direwolf intent on his death stared back, but a man, naked as his name day. 

Theon stared, and the lower half of the man's face twisted into a curved smile, much like Euron’s. He was unclothed and displayed inch upon inch of pale snowy flesh, a brown thatch of hair covering his limp cock that looked too large for any maiden, and stirred something inside Theon.

But worst of all were his eyes; the clear seas of the Iron Islands stared back, and if Theon were any younger, he would’ve fainted. 

“Wha… What are you…” gasped out Theon, trembling as the man took soft steps through the shallow river, stopping only a few feet away. 

“Does it matter?” The man’s voice was lighter than he’d expected, and it almost sounded pleased. 

“I-I suppose it doesn’t.” Trying to get his bearings, Theon gulped. “Who are you?” 

Before answering, the man crossed the shallow river and knelt before Theon. 

“Ramsay.” He said. “What about your name? Hm? Why don’t we start there.” 

“Robb.” He lied, remembering what Shireen had said about not wanting people to know who he was. “Robb Stark, of the House Winterfell.” 

If possible, Ramsay’s smile became more gnarled and twisted, his brows going higher as white teeth were bared at the Greyjoy heir. “You’re Robb Stark? Really?” 

Theon gulped, “Yes, I am.” 

Ramsey seemed to roll the name Robb around on his tongue, getting a taste for it before once more standing tall. He held out one pale hand under Theon’s nose. “Well then, Robb Stark, I’ll escort you back to Winterfell. I wouldn’t want the heir to the King in the North to get himself lost.” 

“No, no, you don’t have to do that.” Feeling a rush of courage and stupidity, Theon reared back and managed to stand on wobbly knees, putting a gap between the two. “I made it this far didn’t I? I can see myself home. But thank you… for offering.” 

But Ramsay simply closed the gap between them, and whispered, “I wasn’t offering.” 

Very quickly, Theon realized he couldn’t get out of the hurricane he’d become ensnared in. The arrows he’d brought would be no match for… whatever Ramsay was, and even then, pissing him off seemed like the wrong thing to do

He wanted to hit himself for saying his name was Robb; he couldn’t have guessed that Ramsay was from these parts, and it was spiraling out of his control.

Why couldn’t he have said something simple like _Sam_? Or _Jon_?

Hopefully, Ramsay would be content to leave Theon at his small home and not ask any questions. 

“Well?” Ramsay impatiently asked. 

Nodding, Theon gave a tight smile, but first asked “Don’t you want to put on some clothes?” He averted his eyes from the ever-hardening cock just a foot away.

“It’s quite cold in the North.” 

“I think I’ll stay like this.” Ramsay nodded. “Unless you have a problem with that?” 

Theon shook his head, already turning and treading back to the thicket of trees, aware of Ramsay closely following behind. All of the small animals that had followed from before had vanished, no longer cooing at his meek form. Now, only the sound of Ramsay’s light airy hum surrounded them. 

Theon’s chest grew tighter the closer they got to his home, all while feeling eyes watching every breath, every step, every twitch.

Grand Maesters had the same eyes, but theirs looked for disease of the mind and soul, not whatever Ramsay was doing to him. It felt _dirty._

“So,” Ramsay began. “What business does Robb Stark have out here in the Wolfswood? I’ve heard he tends to stay inside of Winterfell. You’ve never paid mind so close to the Dreadfort before” 

Theon thought hard for a moment, schooling his features to remain calm. “I thought I could hunt something to show off. There isn’t much anywhere else.” 

He didn’t look back, but could feel Ramsay’s stare grow tighter. 

“I love hunting as well.” Ramsay agreed. “My Father has fallen out of favor with it, but it’s a practice I intend to keep for a very long time.” 

They approached the small slip of Theon’s home, and only then did he turn to face Ramsay, who still sported a twisted grin. Worst, his cock still bobbed up and down, resistant to the cold. 

“This is as far as I need.” He didn’t dare meet Ramsay’s eyes.

“Ah, but this isn’t Winterfell, is it, Robb Stark.” It wasn’t a question. “I thought I was taking you home to the Warden of the North.” 

“You don’t have to, I’m alright here.” Theon began to shake, his shoulders trembling. “Please, Ramsay.” 

“I like to hear my name on your lips.” Ramsay’s voice whispered in his ear as the other man appeared beside him, the naked body emitting such a heat it nearly burned. “Will you say it again… Robb.” 

“Ramsay.” Theon mumbled. 

His skin turned to ice when Ramsay leaned in closer to the slope of his neck, nosing at the soft, pale flesh, and breathing in deeply, much to Theon’s discomfort. Pale hands slunk to his thin hips and tugged him closer, cock crushed against his front. 

It felt strange, being this close with another man. It was a punishable offence in King’s Landing, The Reach, under the Faith of the Seven. And yet, it felt just like being with a brothel whore, the same heat rising in his belly, the same flush climbing up to burn his cheeks. 

He was no virgin; young girls had begged to be his salt wife at a time he was a green boy, but the man in Theon hadn’t felt desire like this in a long while. 

Finally, as if tugged on a rope, Ramsay slunk away, muttering, “I like you.”

He turned to the woods. “Don’t make me regret it.” 

It took everything in Theon to not collapse to the grassy floor as Ramsay took the shape of a wolf once more and fled into the woods. He barely remembered bolting his door and running to the four-poster soft bed and huddling under the covers, trying to silence the howls echoing through the woods. 

The very next day, a skinned rodent appeared outside his door. And the day after that, and the day after that as well; each one bigger than the one before. The smallest was a raven with parchment still clutched in its claws, and he’d read the piece of paper. It was a message from the Capital, some riddle too complex, and it ended up burning in the fires that kept him warm. 

After that, the rabbits had been plentiful. Perfectly skinned with red meat ready to be roasted in the fire, but that was only after he’d realized they were never going to stop coming. The first few had been buried under the earth, a prayer to the Drowned Gods, but the very next morning, the dirt-covered carcasses had been torn bloody on his floor. 

They tasted good, which was nice. Pyke had oily fish, and Robb’s rations were foods that rumbled his belly but guilt quieted it down. It had never been easy to accept gifts while not viewing them as handouts. He wasn’t some maiden that needed saving. 

Theon could survive just on his own. 

* * *

A sennight later, he received an unexpected visitor. 

He’d been in the middle of cooking a roast rabbit stew with carrots when three knocks banged against the door. Paying no mind to the blood on his hands or the stench of death in the air, his legs ran to the door and wrenched it open. Maybe Robb was paying a friendly visit… or Ramsay. 

Sadly, it was neither. 

A girl no older than eight and ten stood before him, dressed in a plain brown grown with muck and dirt covering the edges, tears and holes scarring the once perfect cloth. If not for the imperfections in her wear, she would’ve been very pretty. Long brown wavy locks, pink full cheeks with not a crooked tooth in sight- unlike Theon, who’d always felt weary of his misshapen teeth. 

This girl, however, was beautiful. 

But he couldn’t comprehend why she was here, of all places. Perhaps, she’d lost her way to Winterfell, or maybe she belonged to the House that Robb had warned him against. The Bolton’s, or something along those lines. 

“Can I help you with something?” his eyes darted to the line that met the woods. “Are you lost?” 

Her lips curved into a smile that corrupted her face, “No, I don’t believe I am. May I come in?” 

There was barely a chance to nod before she barreled her way inside, much stronger than she looked. Shutting the door, he watched as she looked around his small but homey lodgings. It was more than enough for just him, and the privacy was nice.

The warm presence of Robb was what he missed on the cold winters nights. 

“I wanted to see for myself what all the fuss was about,” she said. All at once, she was in front of him, sneering at his loose clothes. “Can’t say I see what Ramsay does. Not really my type, I suppose. I like them with more meat on their bones.” 

Theon tried not to jolt at the wolf-man’s name, only sputtering out a soft “R-ramsay?” 

“Yes, you silly cow.” She grinned with full teeth. “I’m Myranda, the love of my Ramsay’s life. And you’re Theon Greyjoy, but that’s not what you told him, is it?” 

His blood turned to ice, freezing his veins. “How’d you know that? I haven’t…” 

His words died off as she pulled something from within her dress, letting it hang an inch from his nose. It swung like a pendulum, back and forth, the blood red jewels of the Iron Islands staring back. His mother’s necklace, the one he’d traded to the sailor for passage away from Pyke. 

“I followed your stench all the way to a ship, and the sailor had this in his pocket.” Taking it in her hands, she tapped the ruby surface. “He wouldn’t talk at first, but all men bleed. If not for themselves, then for their wives.” She whispered, “Or daughters.” 

_Drowned Gods, save him._

This woman, Myranda, had done something horrible to an innocent girl and her Father, when they’d done nothing but help him escape. Shireen had been kind to him, reading soft stories as the night grew cold amongst the empty ship, sharing flavorless potato soup and even helping brush his hair. 

An angel tainted with greyscale did not deserve the likes of Myranda, the monster.

“Stop looking at me like that, I didn’t kill her. You should be thankful it was me who found them and not Ramsay.” She shrugged, “He’d have flayed the Father and hunted the little girl. I only gave them a scare for your name and this lovely thing. Was it your Mother’s?”

He jerkily nodded, but she let out an annoyed sigh, as if _he_ were the one terrorizing her. 

“I was going to kill you, Theon,” Myranda admitted with no true malice.

“I’d planned on chasing you through the woods and tearing apart your limbs, saving your pretty face for last. I would’ve enjoyed ripping you to pieces and hearing your screams for mercy.” 

He was too far from the kitchen to grab the sharpest knife, and if she was the same creature as Ramsay, going for the door would be pointless.

He’d left Pyke to flee the fights and lies, but found himself in the midst of it all over again. 

“But I don’t think I will.” Myranda began to back Theon up against the wall. “It wouldn’t feel right taking that away from Ramsay.” 

Theon tried to explain himself, possibly calm her down, “I haven’t touched Ramsay, I swear to you. He’s still yours.” 

He grunted when she slammed him against the wall, nails digging into his top as her eyes grew darker with rage. His hands scrambled to release her hold, but it was useless. 

She scoffed at his teary eyes, “You really don’t know, do you?” 

“He dreams of you,” she whispered softly in her ear, pressing against his squirming form.

“When he fucks me, he wishes he were filling you with his cock. Fucking your untainted hole until it bleeds.” 

“When he kisses me, he longs to bite your pretty, pink lips and hear you beg and whimper for mercy.”

Her voice grew hard as she went on, “And when he holds me at night, his thoughts are plagued with how you’d feel dripping with his seed.” 

“And right… here…” one of her fingers trailed down the curve of her pale neck, scraping the skin.

“He wants to mate with you, and put his bite right where everyone can see. Wants your belly to grow fat with his pups and breed you for the rest of your days.” 

“I…” Theon was at a loss for words. Nothing was making sense anymore, and his head began to grow light. 

_Mate with me?_

_Pups?_

He wanted to say her words were lies and that Ramsay barely knew him, aside from their one meeting. None of this was true and she’d merely lost her senses on her walk through the woods.

Except, Ramsay _had_ transformed before his very eyes, and there had been a hunger in his voice that tickled Theon’s belly. 

But it wasn’t as though this was his fault… right? 

“What would you have me do?” 

Myranda’s nostrils flared when she leaned in, nose to nose.

“Run.” 

His eyes bugged out. “Now?” 

“Not now, you idiot.” She rolled her eyes.

“Before the next blood moon, I want you gone and back where you came from. Be it the filthy Iron Islands or across the sea in Braavos.” Her breath smelt of blood. “If you’re still here, I’ll eat your heart while it’s still beating.” 

Once her hands ceased gripping his top, he slid down to the floor, staring up with glistening eyes. She reminded him of Yara, and the disappointed look she loved to give anyone who wasn’t one of her salt wives. It only made him want to cower into the corner of the room. 

And as if she could read his thoughts, Myranda nudged him with her foot. “Don’t cry, little dog. You’re lucky Locke didn’t find you first. He would’ve taken your _tongue._ ” 

The door banged against the wall as Myranda strode back into the woods, leaving Theon in a puddle on the floor. His knees shook, his limbs felt achy, and the smell of rabbit stew in the air nearly emptied his stomach. If anything Myranda had said was true, then he needed to leave. 

_~Part 2: Predator Coming Soon!~_

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Don't forget to comment!


End file.
